The gun gleamed with evil,
As the man picked it up.
He placed a bullet within the barrel,
And spun it once.
He looked around at his wretched surroundings
And shed a single tear.
Before he placed the gun to his temple.
He counted down, slowly and eerily,
Until he reached the last number.
He squeezed his eyes shut,
With a numb finger,
He pulled the trigger.
Instead of his lifeless body toppling to the ground,
And a loud shot.
He realized that he was not holding a gun.
But merely his own finger.
I'm only fourteen years old, I haven't written poetry in so long, but I am deciding to give it a shot. I know it's not the best, but I'm trying.